


praise the father

by Emeka



Series: mega-fucked stuff [10]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Animal Abuse, CSEM, Cuntboy, M/M, Pedophilia, sexually aggressive minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25800226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: Their lives both changed one evening.(prequel to 'it shouldn't have happened')
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: mega-fucked stuff [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320089
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	praise the father

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for 100 subs!

Michel sighs, for what seems like the millionth time. Lately inspiration has been hard to come by. Every stroke just screams wrong, wrong, wrong. It's part of the normal flow of being an artist; just like any other job has its 'lack of interest' days, there are days when every idea feels contrived, and his hands too clumsy. Doesn't make it better.

Fireworks sound off one by one in the distance, before collecting into a combined clump of dull sounds. It's officially a new year, then. He's just glad the holiday cluster will finally be over with. There's nothing worse for his sanity than overdone decorations and music for three months straight. Maybe he'll finally be able to concentrate.

How nice that would be, he muses, eyes glazing over his barely marked canvas. Not even his preliminary sketch is complete. Commissions should be easier than this. All he has to do is make what someone else told him to, so why is he...

The fireworks have died down, at least for the moment. But it's still noisy outside. He realizes someone is knocking on his door.

He goes to answer it even though it's probably someone not particularly important. Whatever will give him something else to look at for a second.

There had been no sense of foreboding as his fingers closed on the doorknob, no awareness his life was about to change dramatically. If there had been, his dismissal of it would have been so complete it might as well never happened.

A gust of wind blows the door in as he tries to open it, one so terribly icy his breath smothers in his mouth. A child slips past him into the house, though one so small and skinny he isn't concerned. Probably a beggar seeking shelter.

A stern word will be enough, he thinks, slamming the door shut against another gust. Or the threat of the police. The boy clamps onto his waist before he can get a single word out, and looks up at him with big, beseeching eyes.

"They're coming," he whispers somehow between his chattering teeth. "Please don't tell on me."

"Who? Your parents?" A little runaway? It must have just happened. The boy is only wearing a thin cotton shift and slippers, but he's shivering violently, pink-faced, and surely not numb if he can cling so tightly.

"I don't think so, but..."

He shoves the boy aside and peeps out his front window, between the curtains. A group of four men are wandering slowly down the street, looking around in a controlled 'inconspicuous' way. They don't go to any houses. Either they don't want anyone knowing they've lost a kid, or are afraid to run into him running his mouth off to someone. "What do they want you for, if they're not your family?" he asks with feigned disinterest.

"I'm their cunt," the boy says glumly.

He turns in his own slow, controlled way. The boy is hugging himself, with arms far too thin. On a careful look, he appears around eight, maybe slightly older if accounting for his malnutrition. His hair is short, badly-cut. Pretty blue eyes, marred by the shadows beneath. "Will they come around again?"

The boy shakes his head. "I dunno. I never got away before. There were others--sometimes--but they never made it for long."

"Will many of them look? How many do you stay with?"

"Sometimes I got brought to others. But five, mostly."

He's hardly an expert on child exploitation. Is that a small ring? Or would they be only a few from a larger organization, for lack of a better word? They'll probably move on; for their own safety, even if they don't want to give up the kid. "Sure, you can stay here... for good, if you want."

The boy beams, and latches back on.

And there he stays for the next week, as much as he can help it. The boy (who introduces himself as Cunt, but accepts Michel's judicious renaming to Jude, after a family dog in his youth for lack of any other idea) clings to him like a limpet. It's fine in front of the social workers. They've been given an agreed story, in that while Jude has indeed been raped, he is on the whole just a homeless boy. It minimizes drama. It's still very early in the process of things, but he hopes to sign his adoption papers. After a few long office meetings in his best suit, he’s chosen as a foster on the condition that he complete some eight weeks of training and a home study.

It's a little more bothersome in private. He has no use for such a constant need for contact, even if he's attracted, and there can be no denying he is. It's not even his fault. The boy shamelessly tries to handle him as they bathe together, and shows no modesty about his own body. Of course he'd feel something.

But when he has woken crying every other night, with such blind thrashing he has to be subdued and pinned to the bed that just makes him scream and pull harder… there, in his wild eyes and bared teeth, Michel sees something truly interesting.

Over the next month, he looks harder for the parts of him that are broken. It's not hard. Jude is extremely compliant, with no real preferences of his own. Even if he had his own name he wouldn’t be able to write it. His smiles come easily with strangers, but empty, with watchful eyes. At restaurants he prefers booths with seats against the wall—and that’s when he’ll go at all. He shrinks when they bring the cameras to take his picture and clings to Michel, but backs away from others (and oh their case worker oohs and ahhs about their ‘bond of trust’). And even with Michel, seems to prefer to touch than be touched, if the way he tenses up is any indication.

His sexual forwardness.

"Let me suck you off," he says one night on the couch, in a childish reproduction of sultry. But there's a real desperation lurking in his eyes. "You've done a lot for me. But I don't have anything to give you."

"That would make me just the same as them," Michel explains patiently, as he has a few times now. Honestly that concerns him less than the law. He's under too much scrutiny to be fiddling around.

But it's as though it's what every interaction between them has to come down to. You make my dinners. I can do an okay footjob. You bought me new clothes. Let me give you a handy. You let me live here. You can fuck me whenever you want.

One night Michel trudges back to his bedroom after a long day in his studio, and finds him already laying on his bed, nightie pulled up around his waist, thighs spread, the soles of his feet pressed together. He's playing with himself, with a pink slit barely visible in the lamplight, but it's more than audible and it sounds soaked.

All wet for him, for his cock which immediately hardened at the sight. Frustration seeps into the back of his brain, and in his throat like bitter gall. It's not fair. Why should he have to be in the position of saying no over and over like this?

He slams the door shut and hurries to the bathroom. He needs to come or he's going to do something stupid. Jude pounds on the door after him like he's angry or scared, but he cannot at all think about him right now. In the shower he furiously pounds his cock in his fist and releases in seconds, thinking of that dim pinkness, Jude's fingers shining with his own juice.

"Don't do that again," he says when he finally leaves, sounding as hollow as he feels. "I can't."

Jude bows his head obediently... but the next week Michel has to start forcing him into the guest bedroom and locking his own door. Once he'd woken in a vague mist of pleasure and realized Jude had his cock and was stroking it up and down against his slit. The image seared into his mind for a brief two or three seconds, and he was loving it, rolling his hips up against him, eyes tightly closed and so so sticky wet his glans was dripping with it.

He's going to come. What if it gets inside?

He pulls away just as he starts to spurt, and covers his head. What feels like a gallon's worth of semen collects against his hand as he has what he thinks is the longest orgasm of his life. The kid starts clinging to him again, and he can’t even muster up the energy to elbow him off until it’s over with.

“I love you,” the kid whispers, kissing the side of his face—and though there’s no possible way he can mean it, there’s an alluring appeal to his words that sizes up to the rest of him, and his miserably fucked-up personality. “It’s different with you. You can do anything you want with me.”

“I love you too,” he replies cautiously, and a little breathless still. “But you need to understand I can’t touch you. You wouldn’t be allowed to live with me anymore.” 

“But I _want_ you to touch me.” 

He wonders how true that is. When he manages to turn his head, he still has that haunted look, as though his eyes are wells leading into the center of a very cold universe. It is an expression that conveys a few things he could name—none of which are love. But it’s a good look, an _interesting_ look that suits the both of them more than any soppishness. “Sometimes, in life, you have to plan ahead.”

It is a way of thinking he sees he must teach him; to look beyond surviving the day, to thriving in the future. One day, he says, I can touch you. But for that time to come, you must show you are capable of living here. Do not say anything suspicious to any of the social or case workers, and make some effort with the therapist they want you to see. Allay their concerns about your development. Then one day… but until then, his bedroom door stays locked.

The decision holds some amount of suffering for him as well. Yes, it does. The silky smoothness of that pretty baby pussy runs through his mind over and over, and how he’d been just a nudge away from fucking it. He’s eyed up a few kids from time to time but dismissed any fantasy with the acknowledgment that it could never happen. There’s never been a situation like this.

Just a week from that night he is finding it hard to sleep. Jude tried and whined at his door a few times before giving up. Each time he was tempted despite himself to let him in, and even worse now, to go to his bedroom. Erotic dreams haunt him with the pieces of him he’s come to know: skin pale as cream but pink where it is most delicate, the knobs of his wrists and knees, the weight slowly melting into his underfed belly, even the ridges of his ribs. The expression in his eyes that shows everything his body does not. 

It’s all bluing his balls, whether he jerks off or not. Fucking his hand only dulls the urge for a short while.

He wonders even further. Would the men that kept Jude have made… records of what they did to him, and posted them online? Assuming it isn’t hidden behind a paywall of some kind, could he find it? He’s never gone looking for child porn, but to hear people talk about it, some is readily available. 

Over another week he does some very guarded searching on his laptop. VPNs, onions, though even with these measures he hears it’s possible to be busted. Hopefully, that he wants only a single video, just a little memento, will make him not worth the trouble by comparison. Consuming is a different thing from producing and distributing. Besides. It might already exist. And what is its significance, compared to the boy living in his house with him? Far better the one than the other.

He stays up late every night for a week. Glancing at photos, gauging the risk. He finds his face finally in the midst of some other children, all just as empty in the eyes and ill-fed. Boys mostly that he can tell, and a few pubescent girls, one of which with a swollen belly presented as the current item of interest. The comments describe what they’d like to do to her newborn, but like a child passing a pet store and seeing the puppy he _must_ have, all he can see is that boy.

The videos aren’t differentiated from one to the other. Just numbered titles. He wonders if that’s normal or if they’re disorganized about their media. All his own music and photos are painstakingly tagged in every relevant section of metadata but he can see how that would be unwise in this case, even if it means a little more searching. and finally he has what he wants.

Jude saw a doctor the day after he began living with him, and once every week since. Michel has noted the statistics of his health, from the trichomoniasis and chlamydia he was treated for, and the ten pounds he’s gained without thinking much of it. It doesn’t sound like much. But even though Jude is still underweight and malnourished, he sees in the video first thing how much worse he used to be. Skin and hair duller, heavy bruised circles under the eyes, limbs like sticks to be snapped in half. So much empty misery in the thing that only passingly resembled a child’s face.

He wouldn’t think anything that wore such a face would have any tears left, but he’s wrong. The boy sniffles then sobs then cries and cries like a babe. His pussy is just as small and pink as Michel remembers from the passing views of it he’s had. Not too small, though. That gets proven over the course of an hour, as eight different cocks split open his immature slit and fill it full of thick, stringy semen that by the end is freely creaming out of his hole. They’re probably not even any bigger than the average dick, but anything looks huge when crammed into something that can barely fit.

The crying gradually comes to a stop halfway through. Near the end, with the last cock of the film inside him, he has what is almost certainly an orgasm; he shivers all over, and a few more sobby noises are dragged out of him. The owner of the dick inside him (the camera throughout maintains a fixed position from above, looking down at the action) chuckles and says as much. A round of applause goes off.

Michel comes himself, and not for the first time that night, thinking how sweet and soft that clenching baby sex must feel.

The next day he transfers the file to a USB, password-protects it with the most irrelevant date he can still remember (the passing of the ol’ family dog, who finally died when he stopped medicating it while his mother was away with a new boyfriend), then takes the formatted laptop to the dump himself to smash apart.


End file.
